The question
had
been pounding through Mon Mothma's brain ever since last night, when
the shit
had hit the fan. And now, almost sixteen hours later, she still didn't
have any
answers.

No one seemed
to have
much of an answer. Last night's attack had been called off as soon as
they
intercepted the Corellian news broadcast, but despite the seemingly
endless
succession of chaotic meetings, they had not yet reached any decisions
on what
action they should take instead.

Some members of
the
Command Staff were arguing for an altered attack plan, at a different
date and
time, but others rightly pointed out that now Coruscant's defence
forces would
be watching for any such attempt. There was no longer a chance of
taking
Coruscant by surprise. There had been suggestions that they abandon the
diversionary attack entirely and simply send in the cloaked shuttles,
but no
doubt the Imperials would be on the alert for that, too. They might be
able to
adjust their sensors to pick up the cloaked ships, and even if not,
Lord Vader
would almost certainly be too heavily guarded now for any of the rescue
team to
reach him.

What
are we
going to do?

She felt
trapped by
her helplessness. She tried to reassure herself that the Rebellion
could
survive this. If Vader and the others were lost to them, that was a
tragedy,
yes. Any loss of life was, and Vader and his companions had fought
gallantly
for the Rebellion, it would be a dark day if they were gone. But the
Rebellion
would go on. It had lost heroes before, and survived.

Only this time
she
wasn't so sure. The Alliance had changed. It belonged as much to the
former
Imperials now as to any of the rest of them. That had been their
strength in
this past year, but it could also be their weakness. If Lord Vader
died, and
half of their forces blamed the other half for it, there was a very
strong
chance that it could tear the Alliance apart. The Empire could win
without
sending even one ship against them, just by sitting back and watching
while
Rebels fought each other and the Rebel Alliance disappeared from the
galaxy
forever.

She sighed
bitterly. Even if that worst case scenario did not come true, they
still had
their traitor to deal with. If they couldn't manage to find him or her
now, Mon
Mothma thought in despair, they might as well just give up the whole
damned
Rebellion. Where was the point in even trying, if every plan they made
was
going to be betrayed the moment it was formed?

At least there
was
one good thing in all of this, she told herself, as she reached for the
cup of
coffee on her desk, took a sip, and noted with irritation that the
coffee had
gone cold. No one, not even Madine, was suggesting that Piett was
behind this
latest betrayal. The doctors and medical droids were adamant that he
had not
been out of the hospital and had had no access to any communication
equipment.
Besides, he had not even been at the meetings where the attack was
planned.

Of course, that
still didn't clear his name. It was always possible that there were two
traitors. She hadn't heard yet the results of Security's latest
investigation,
but this time, she hoped that the
bloody message had been sent from Piett's
account. At least that would prove, finally, that someone other than
the
Admiral was using it.

Gods, what a
headache. No, never mind the headache, her entire body ached. She'd
managed to
snatch a couple hours of sleep last night, in between meetings, but she
still
felt as if she hadn't slept for a decade.

What
are we
going to do?

Her office
looked like
someone had fired a superlaser through it. She gazed around, thinking, this
is disgusting. That was always something she could do while
she waited for the next
meeting; she could give her office a thorough spring cleaning.

She got up from
her
desk and started picking up the assorted coffee cups which seemed to be
breeding on it. Once she'd collected them, of course, there was the
question of
what to do with them. She stuck them in the "out" tray and resolved
to take them back to the canteen when she had this place looking a bit
more
respectable.

On her desk,
along
with the usual piles of disks and documents, were the vids from the Executor's security
camera.

Damn. She
should
have returned those. Now, when she did return them to Commander Caspren
of the Executor, she would
probably get dear Security Captain Faren accusing her of not keeping
her word,
and continuing her investigation in secret.

Well, she thought, and
why not? Hell. If Faren's going to think the worst anyway, I might as
well live
up to his expectations.

I'm
not really
investigating, anyway. Just a little light entertainment, until the
next
useless meeting comes along.

She only had a
month or so of the security vids left to watch, anyway; she had already
nearly
made her way through the entire year that Caspren had given her.
Another month,
and she'd be back to the time of the New Alliance's founding. So what
could it
hurt if she watched the one remaining month? Faren and Narita and
General Veers
were pissed off with her already, why stop now? Another month wouldn't
make any
difference.

Mothma switched
on
the vid, feeling defiant and slightly ridiculous, but not particularly
caring.
It beat sitting around and chewing her fingernails.

Once the vid
had started,
of course, she began to think that perhaps this was not such a
brilliant idea.
She had forgotten how boring the security videos were. She was watching
the
chronological sequence backwards again, and there were the usual long
stretches
of Piett's office being empty, with the monotony only slightly broken
by
periods of the Admiral working at his desk, talking with the occasional
visitors -- none of whom seemed to be doing anything suspicious -- and
drinking
coffee. The vid, Mothma thought, might be useful for a coffee company's
product
use investigations, but not for much else.

She glanced at
the
date counter. Three weeks after the formation of the New Alliance, and
counting.

The video was
into
a night sequence. The light to Piett's office suddenly switched on, and
Mothma
saw two people apparently back into the room. She recognised Piett and
Captain
Needa, the latter clutching to his chest a bottle of what appeared to
be vodka.
The Captain's blond hair was sticking up at a number of peculiar
angles, while
Piett, though entirely impeccable compared to his colleague, did seem
to be
redder of face than usual. Mon Mothma smiled. So, coffee wasn't quite the only
beverage
to make its appearance in this office.

Still moving
backward, the image of Piett sat down at his desk and apparently
switched on
the computer -- so of course he'd just switched it off -- and Needa sat
down on
the floor, holding the bottle and resting his head against the edge of
the
desk.

Piett read a
text
message on his computer screen, while Needa appeared to be carefully
deciphering whatever was written on the vodka label. The message on the
screen
then vanished, and Mothma saw Piett punching in his access code --

Mon Mothma
suddenly
froze the image, staring at it in shock.

Needa was
watching
while Piett typed the code.

It looked
perfectly
innocent, of course. Needa's head was only a few inches away from the
keyboard
anyway, so all he had to do was casually glance over and Piett was
typing his
code right under -- or actually, right above -- Needa's nose.

Mothma frowned.
She
let the scene continue to play backward, and saw Piett switch off his
computer,
the two men stand up again, Piett take the bottle from Needa and put it
into a
filing cabinet, and then Needa and Piett back out of the office, Piett
switching off the light as he went.

Mon Mothma
turned
on the volume and played the sequence again in forward.

Piett walked
in,
switching on the light. Needa was a few steps behind him. As they
walked into
the scene, Piett was saying, "... but be careful! Last time we had a
drink
in my room you knocked over one of the trees."

Piett crossed
to
the filing cabinet, opened one of the drawers and rummaged around in
it, while
Needa hung back, saying, "if you will insist on
carting a forest
around with you, you've got to accept the risks."

Admiral Piett
ignored that, and produced his bottle of vodka out of the drawer.
"There
you go," he announced. "The real stuff." He handed the bottle to
Needa, warning again, "careful with that," and Needa obediently
hugged the bottle.

Needa started
toward the door again, but Piett said, "just going to check for any
messages." He sat down at the desk, in front of his computer, and after
a
moment, Needa sat on the floor by the desk, still cradling the vodka.
With
complete naturalness, for all the galaxy as if he was just randomly
glancing
around because he was bored, Needa turned his head toward the keyboard,
and was
looking straight at it as Piett typed in his access code. He looked
away again,
lazily gazed all around the room, and then started reading the label of
the
vodka bottle.

"Message from
home?" Needa asked, as Piett continued to read his message and the
vodka
label apparently lost its interest.

"All
right," Piett said, in an irritated tone. "I don't want to make
things worse." He gestured at the door with exaggerated politeness.
"After you," he said.

Needa and the
vodka
bottle left, and Piett followed, switching off the light.

The security
video
continued playing for some seconds in darkness, before Mon Mothma
remembered to
switch it off.

Captain
Needa?

It didn't prove
anything. That whole sequence was probably just what it seemed to be;
two
colleagues having a drink and deciding that they wanted to break into
the good
stuff. Just because Needa had looked at Piett's keyboard, that didn't
mean
there was some fiendish motive behind it. He probably hadn't even
remembered
the code, if he'd noticed it; he'd obviously had a few drinks already,
and was
doubtless about to have more.

But, in the
almost-year of security vids that she'd watched, only this even came
close to hinting
that someone else was in possession of Piett's code.

It
wouldn't be
Needa, she thought, surely. She'd always
had the impression that he and
Piett were friends. She thought she remembered Piett telling her once
that
they'd been at the Academy together. Still, if Needa was someone who
really
cared about the Empire, and if he didn't think that what Vader and the
rest of
them had done was right ...

She would have
to
report this, no matter what. Faren and Narita would probably implode,
but she
couldn't help that now. Even if this was a false alarm, they still had
to know
about it.

She scowled at
the
screen, almost wishing she'd never begun this wretched investigation.
If it was Needa, Piett
was
not going to be pleased to find out. Though he should, at least, be
glad to
have his own name cleared ...

She started the
vid
playing backward again, speeding up its rate as it once more went
through the
Piett, Needa and vodka sequence. Three more weeks to go. Maybe she'd
luck out,
and find some other potential fiendish traitor ostentatiously sneaking
into the
office and exonerating Needa.

Maybe.

She grimly
watched
the screen.

It was a
glorious
morning.

Vivid sunlight.
Clear, crisp air that reminded one of how high in elevation the upper
layers of
Imperial City actually were. The scent of flowers from myriad rooftop
gardens,
lending their sweet and exotic auras to the more mundane industrial
smells of
the passing traffic.

The perfect day
on
which to throw away one's career. And probably one's life.

Nevoy was
amazed at
how relaxed he felt. No doubt it was just the calm before the storm,
he'd be in
hysterics again before the end of the day. But this morning, he felt
fresh,
rested -- Gods, he almost felt cheerful.

Osheen
Nevoy,
you are insane.

He had trimmed
his
beard, showered, dressed, and had breakfasted on qavva juice, two
muffins, and
porridge liberally drenched in mauay syrup. While eating, he'd read
some
reports for a committee that he was now almost certainly destined never
to sit
on. As he got up from the breakfast table, he idly wondered whether he
was
imagining the relief with which C4T8 seemed to greet the fact that he
had eaten
a sizeable breakfast.

He wasn't due
at
work yet for another half an hour, not that anyone was ever likely to
tell him
off if he were late. Not even Palpatine, who was usually still asleep
at this
time of the morning. Time for a nice leisurely flight to the Palace,
and then a
day of engrossing himself in all the paperwork he could find, hopefully
ignoring the fact that in just over twelve hours' time he was going to
lead a
revolt.

What had he
forgotten? Was there anything else he should do before leaving home?

Yesterday
evening
he had, in what he hoped was not any kind of a mysterious fashion,
arranged the
transfer of some fairly modest sums to Rosmarin and Marida. Not enough
to
arouse suspicion, he hoped; the kind of money that a doting grandparent
sends
every now and then in a fit of familial affection, with the intention
that it
be saved for the kids' university fees. It wouldn't make much of a dent
in the
funds which would doubtless become inaccessible to him from the moment
he
officially betrayed the Empire, but at least he wouldn't have to feel
that the
bank had swallowed up everything. He had about
5,000 credits
on him; again, not much, but enough to pay for hotel charges or
transportation
for a few days, if he ended up needing that. Presuming he joined up
with the
Rebellion, he didn't imagine he'd need too much ready cash, but
obviously it
was better to err on the safe side.

He wondered how
much his preparations were mirroring those Ardella had made, when she
left.

He looked
around,
resisting the sentimental urge to pay one last farewell visit to every
room in
the house. But however much he assured himself that he wasn't going to
be sentimental,
it just didn't seem right to take the lift up to the landing pad this
morning.
When you left your house for the last time, you ought to experience it
to the
full, and walk.

One
good thing, he thought as he
started upstairs, I'll never have to sort out all the junk in
this house. There was still
stuff in the storerooms that Ardella had left, for Gods' sakes, and
that was
twenty years ago by now. He'd even lugged her stuff along with them
when they
moved house; he'd still been too furious with her to look through it,
but
somehow he would have felt guilty just throwing it away. Oh well,
whatever it
was, it was gone now. Along with his own possessions, but hells, what
did he
need? He had some holos of the kids in his wallet, and nothing he left
behind
him was going to keep him awake at nights. There might be something
among the
things Rose and Marida still had here that they'd regret, but that was
just too
bad. If they'd been bothered about it, they should have moved it out by
now.

Of course, most
of Laram's
things were still here too.

Yes,
well? So
what? First rule of successful revolts, don't try to overthrow the
government
with your dead son's baby toys sticking out of your pockets.

Resolutely --
or
almost resolutely -- Nevoy continued to stomp up the stairs.

Laram had never
been much of a materialist, anyway, unlike Marida whose room had been
so
crammed with toys, it had always been a wonder that the girl herself
had
managed to squeeze into it. The few books Laram cared about most had
been with
him on the Death Star, along with the antique blaster rifle that had
belonged
to one of his great-grandmothers on Ardella's side. No, Nevoy didn't
think
there was anything left here that Laram would be particularly upset to
lose.

Except maybe
Blue
Bantha.

Most of his
toys,
Laram had either given away himself or, in the case of the various ship
models,
sold when he left for the Academy. There were a few remaining models
and action
figures sitting on shelves gathering dust. But Blue Bantha, in all his
moth-eaten glory, had retained the place of honour on Laram's pillow.
Laram had
still slept with the old toy when he was home on leave, at least Nevoy
remembered once when Laram had overslept and he'd gone in to wake him
up, and
the bantha was nestled in the crook of Laram's arm.

Oh, Gods, no.
This
was just getting silly. What was he planning to do, run around the
Palace with
a blaster in one hand and a toy bantha in the other?

No, really, he
was
going to have to control himself. One chink in his armour, and he'd
probably
end up trying to take everything. He could just see himself, turning up
at work
laden down with banthas and school sports trophies and dolls and all
the
drawings Laram and Rose and Marida had done when they were kids.

He had reached
the
roof, and he stepped outside, breathing in the fresh air. But he didn't
start
toward his c-wing.

Who was he
trying
to kid? He knew he was going
to bring that bloody bantha with him, it
was just a question of how long it took him to accept it. He could
either go
get the damned thing now, or have to leave the Palace some time during
the day
in order to retrieve it. If he did make it through this revolt alive,
he did not want to spend
the
rest of his days feeling guilty about Blue Bantha.

All
right, Blue
Bantha, all right, he thought
irritably, starting down the stairs once
more, I'm on my way.

Laram's room
was
reasonably tidy, a sure sign that its former occupant was no longer
here. C4T8
cleaned in here once a month or so, and the room spelled vaguely of
household
cleanser and furniture polish. There was a thin layer of dust on the
surfaces;
it must be about time for C4T8's next round of cleaning.

Nevoy stood
just
inside the doorway. He ought, probably, to just grab Blue Bantha and
run, but
he couldn't resist pausing for one last look around.

He hadn't
changed
anything in this room since the last time Laram was here. It wasn't
that he'd
wanted to keep the room as a shrine to his son. He just knew that if he
tried
to sort through Laram's things, he'd spend the entire time sobbing, and
he
didn't particularly want to put himself through that. He could have
asked
Rosmarin or Marida, or even C4T8, to do it for him, but he'd always
thought
that someday he'd find the courage to do it himself. Well, now it
didn't
matter. The entire house would get emptied and sold by someone who
didn't know
any of them, and didn't care, and maybe it was better that way.

Nevoy gazed at
the
model Star Destroyer -- a Victory Class one, one of the earliest model
kits
Laram had constructed -- and the various TIE-vessels scattered about on
one of
the shelves. Lying on the shelf, next to the ships, were the three
action
figures that Laram hadn't sold. Nevoy smiled at the sight of them. One
of them
was in a General's uniform, and there was a fluff of cotton wool glued
to his
upper lip; that was the action figure that Laram had said was General
Mulcahy.
The action figure assigned to be Nevoy wasn't a particularly flattering
likeness, especially since his beard and moustache had been drawn on
with a red
magic marker. What the hells, though, it was the thought that counted.
And
there was the third action figure, a real collector's item now,
probably, as it
was of a woman in military uniform. The figure had brown hair, and was
reasonably slender -- though of course, who ever saw a fat action
figure? -- so
she had probably at least as close a resemblance to Ardella as the
Nevoy figure
did to him. Nevoy wondered what pre-Imperial action figures sold for
these
days. Maybe he ought to bring them along with him; he could sell them
to save
himself from poverty. But it was too grim. Somehow he just didn't like
the
concept of carrying Laram's improvised family-and-friends action
figures around
with him. It felt like he'd be carrying around the corpses of the past.

There were
books on
the other shelves -- the Space Travellers series, and
the Warlord of
Warhoon trilogy, and all but the last book of Erdnaxel
Racan's Five
Guardsmen series; Laram had taken the last book with
him. In one corner of the
room was the brightly painted guitar that Laram had almost certainly
not
touched since he was seventeen, even though he had saved up nearly a
year's
worth of allowance to purchase it. There were a few holos here and
there around
the room; Nevoy noticed a holo of himself, Rosmarin, and Marida, all
grinning
madly while they surrounded Laram after his Academy graduation
ceremony, and
one of the entire family, including Ardella, on some Firelord Day --
from the
kids' ages, it must be a year or two before Ardella left.

Nevoy sighed.
Enough. Time to go. He crossed to the bed and grabbed Blue Bantha up
from the
pillow.

What a
disreputable
creature. Nevoy grinned at the threadbare little beast as he turned it
around
in his hands. The tail had lost all of its fur, because the
six-month-old Laram
used to suck on it. The fur on its body was hopelessly matted, and in
places
the blue looked more black or grey; Nevoy remembered that the bantha
had had
many encounters with mud puddles. And some with chocolate syrup. You
could
still see the stitches where Nevoy himself had twice sewn Blue Bantha's
right
horn back on -- Ardella always claimed that sewing was against her
religion,
and Nevoy certainly wasn't going to trust a droid with the repair of
Laram's
bantha. Some of the stitches were starting to come lose again, but on
the whole
they seemed to have held pretty well.

Right. Nevoy
shoved
the bantha into one of his greatcoat pockets. He examined his
appearance in the
mirror on the closet door, and decided that everything was fine; the
pocket was
voluminous enough for it not to be obvious that Blue Bantha was lurking
inside.

So much for his
leisurely flight to the Palace, now he was going
to be late if
didn't get a move on. He strode from Laram's room and once more started
up the
stairs.

Commander
Narita
glanced over at him, and frowned in surprise at how strained and tired
he
looked. Faren never looked like
the job was getting the better of him.
Overwork was far too bourgeois a problem to trouble the scion of a
snooty noble
family like Faren's.

Be
fair, Akemi, Narita told
herself. Faren's a nice enough guy. Completely full of
himself, but at least
he cares about doing his job right.

Narita leaned
back
in her chair, wishing that she knew her colleague well enough to ask
him to
give her a backrub. She didn't, so she just said, "I don't know. I know
we've
got enough evidence to bring him in for questioning."

"The evidence
is
all circumstantial," Faren pointed out.

"It is,"
she agreed. "So was the evidence against Piett."

"Mmph,"
Faren said.

Narita eyed him
curiously, only then remembering that Faren had once served on Captain
Needa's
ship. Faren hadn't talked much to her about his career, but he had
talked
enough for her to know that he'd been Security Chief on the Avenger. So he wasn't
just
talking about some generic suspect, he was talking about arresting his
former
Captain.

Not to mention
how
vocal he had been in the case against Piett. She wouldn't blame him if
he were
upset about the direction things were taking just because he didn't
want to
look stupid. She reached up to rub the muscles in the back of her neck,
and
muttered, "ow." Faren cast a questioning glance at her, and she
quickly changed the subject. "I'm ordering
more coffee," she announced. "Want
any?"

Faren blinked.
"Hmm?
Oh, no. If I drink any more I believe my skull will go into hyperdrive."

Narita nodded
and
keyed in her order to the mess hall's service droids. She leaned back
in her
seat and then glanced over at Faren again. Trying to look as if she
hadn't been
contemplating this question, and as if she didn't already know the
answer, she
asked, "you served on Captain Needa's ship, didn't you?"

"For nearly
three years."

"What's he
like?"

Faren regarded
her
with a sour smile. "You mean, is he likely to be a traitor? Why not?
All
of us are traitors here."

Oops. She did not
want
to get into that territory
again. Shortly after they'd started working
together, she and Faren had shared a very drunken conversation in which
the
ex-Imperial had almost started crying as he bewailed his decision to
betray the
Empire. She'd never heard him say anything of the sort when he was
sober, but
who knew, extreme lack of sleep might have the same effect as drink.

The former
Imperial
bit his lip. He didn't believe her transparent excuse, obviously, but
he always
seemed happy for a reason to recall his Imperial days. This time was
apparently
no exception.

"What's he
like?" Faren repeated. "He's the finest commander I ever had."
He eyed Narita challengingly, as if expecting her to belittle his
statement.
Looking rather disappointed when she kept silent, he went on. "He
really
keeps in touch with his men. Expects the best from everyone, of course,
and if
you screw up he never lets you get away with it." Faren grinned
suddenly. "He's
got sarcasm developed to an art. Everyone used to dread him making some
witty
comment about them, because it'd be a catchphrase all over the ship
before you
had time to blush. But he's fair, he never hurts anyone who doesn't
deserve it.
Unlike a lot of captains I could mention."

Narita nodded
thoughtfully, trying to think of something to say which would continue
the flow
of reminiscences. As it turned out, she didn't have to. Faren's
expression got
more distant, and he said, "then of course there was what happened
after
Hoth. We all thought Captain Needa was a god, after that."

Hoth? She knew
about the battle, of course. She wasn't likely to forget that race to
the
transports, through disintegrating corridors with ice crashing down at
every
step. But what were the Imperials doing at the time, besides bombarding
the
Hell out of the Rebel Base?

"What happened
after Hoth?"

Captain Faren
looked surprised. "Oh. It was when we were chasing the Millennium
Falcon, and they disappeared." He grimaced. "Any
idiot should have
figured out what they'd done, but oh well. We didn't."

Oh,
yeah. She'd heard other
ex-Imperials bitching about this. Some clever stunt that General Solo
had
pulled off, something involving waste disposal. Which, many of the
ex-Imps had
commented, was at least appropriate where the Millennium
Falcon was concerned.

"What happened
with Needa?" she prompted quietly.

"He took the
blame, that's what. Announced he was taking all responsibility, and was
going
to explain to Lord Vader. I think it's the bravest thing I ever saw
anyone do.
Gets into his shuttle like he's going on a tour of inspection, when
everyone
knows he's about to get choked to death. Or worse."

"But he didn't
get choked?"

"He got
choked, all right. I don't know what happened, I suppose Vader
respected his
courage just like the rest of us did. Of course there had to be some
token
punishment, so Lord Vader just choked Needa until the Captain passed
out, then
sent him back to his ship." Faren shook his head. "Needa's the first
man we'd heard of who stood up to Vader and lived. We were all ready to
kiss
his feet."

The ex-Imperial
frowned, suddenly shoved back into the present. "It can't be Captain
Needa. It doesn't make any sense."

"You mean that
he'd betray Lord Vader, after Vader spared his life?" She sighed.
"You're
right. It doesn't." Narita eyed her partner warily, wondering just how
far
she could push the partnership. How much could they just talk, like the
colleagues and friends that she sometimes felt they were? There were
times when
they'd be chatting away just fine, and then he'd remember that he was
an
aristocrat and an officer of the Empire Ð once upon a time --
and that he
shouldn't be wasting time with a little commoner like Akemi Narita.

"Nile,"
she ventured, seeing him start at her use of his first name. "Why do
you
think our traitor's doing it?"

Faren sat
silent,
and she was about to decide that conversation time must be over again.
Then he
said, "it's one of two reasons. Either he's getting paid for it, or he
cares about the Empire and he's sorry he joined the Rebellion. Maybe it
was his
plan all along, he'd pretend to turn traitor with the rest of us so he
could
continue serving the Empire undercover." Was she imagining it, or could
she hear wistful envy in Faren's voice?

She asked, "are
you sorry you joined the Rebellion?"

A little smile
quirked his mouth. "You wondering if I'm the traitor?
Not a chance. I
don't push Darth Vader's buttons if there's any way I can avoid it.
Traitors
are the people he reserves really unpleasant
punishments for."

"I don't think
you're the traitor, I'm just asking. If it weren't for Vader, would you
want to
go back to the Empire?"

"If it weren't
for Vader, I wouldn't be here at all." Which could be interpreted
several
different ways. Faren sighed impatiently. "Come on. Let's find our man.
Whoever he is. I'll see if Vananda has anything for us." The
ex-Imperial
leaned back toward his computer, to contact Chief of Security Commander
Vananda, of Needa's ship the Avenger. Before he
could make the
call, however, there was a buzz from their office's entry bell.

She exchanged a
startled glance with Faren, and Faren muttered, "maybe it's our traitor
come to turn himself in."

Narita opened
the
door, and General Madine bustled into the room.

Oh,
dear, thought Narita.
She glanced over at her partner again and, as she'd expected, saw
disdain and
loathing radiating out of him in waves. Like most of the ex-Imps she'd
gotten
to know, Faren cordially hated General Madine for betraying the Empire
over a
decade before the rest of them had. One could, of course, have argued
that the
General just had more foresight than the rest of them, or that he was
brave
enough to challenge the Empire on his own without having to hide behind
Darth
Vader's cape. But that sort of argument was liable to get one into a
particularly nasty punch-up.

Captain Faren
busied himself at his computer, not deigning to acknowledge General
Madine's
presence. Narita would have to field the General's questions on her
own. "Good
morning, General," she greeted him, wondering if he knew how the other
ex-Imperials felt about him. He had to, she thought; he couldn't be
stupid
enough not to see it. And she didn't think he was stupid. A bit of a
pompous
prick, perhaps, but not stupid. Oops, where had that thought come from?
Had she
always been this snide about the General, or was some of her
co-worker's
dislike rubbing off on her?

There'd
be more
if you weren't always bugging us for progress reports. Gods, what
with
Madine's officiousness and Mon Mothma's lovesick meddling, it was a
miracle
they got any work done. "If it meets with your approval, sir, we'll be
bringing Captain Needa in for questioning. The evidence seems
sufficient to
warrant that. In addition to the discovery made by Mon Mothma, we've
also
learned that Captain Needa has a relative working for Corellia One, the
station
that aired the broadcast. A cousin, one Caspara Drakal. Three years
younger
than Needa. They both grew up on Coruscant, and attended the same
school for
several years. We've no evidence yet on whether they've kept in touch,
but it's
certainly conceivable that he sent her the scoop about our attack."

Madine
considered
that, not seeming particularly delighted with the information. "Of
course
it is all circumstantial," he pointed out, echoing Faren's earlier
statement.

"Yes sir, it
is," she said stolidly, forbearing to observe that Madine had been
dragging
Admiral Piett's name through the mud on just such circumstantial
evidence.

Narita turned
to
her colleague, but he blandly refused to meet her eyes. He must have
opted for
the old-fashioned, typed message method, so his discussion with
Commander
Vananda wouldn't be overheard by Madine.

Faren said,
"Vananda
and his team have uncovered the energy signature for a message that was
sent
eight days before the first of the messages sent using Piett's access
code.
Based on the Avenger's location at
the time, the energy signature is right
to be a message to Coruscant."

"Where was the
message sent from?" asked Madine.

"One of the
open crew terminals on the Avenger. The message
itself has been
wiped from the computer's records, of course. But something else is
odd. The
security tape showing that particular terminal, at that particular
time, is
missing."

Narita sucked
in
her breath. Madine asked, "would Captain Needa have the knowledge to
accomplish that?"

"He would. He
knows that ship well enough, and his men trust him. I doubt anyone
would be
keeping much of an eye on his activities. He'd be able to do it."

Narita
suggested, "but
wouldn't people think it was fishy if they saw the Captain at one of
the crew
terminals?"

"The message
was sent late at night. Captain Needa often used to go for late-night
walks around
the ship, I imagine he still does. If anyone saw him, they'd probably
think he'd
decided to send a spur-of-the-moment message while on one of his walks.
Eccentric maybe, but not out of character."

"Well, that's
that," sighed Madine. "We bring him in."

Father!

Luke
gasped, sitting bolt upright in bed. The dream still clung to his mind.
Not
much of a nightmare, as nightmares went, he supposed. All he remembered
was a
replaying of Anakin's duel with Obi Wan. The last image before he awoke
had
been Anakin's horror-stricken face in that instant after his hand was
sliced
off, when he looked up and saw Obi Wan's lightsaber searing down at him
once
more.

But
in that second Luke had the feeling that Anakin was looking at him, not Obi Wan.
That
Anakin saw him watching, and knew Luke had done nothing to help.

I'm
sorry, Father. I'm so sorry.

The room smelled awful. Or maybe that was
Luke himself. His throat and nostrils stung from the reek of stale
liquor and
sweat. He looked at the hopelessly disordered sheets, tangled down
around his
feet. Here and there the bed was littered with crayons.

Oh,
gods,
thought Luke. Gods, I'm going to be sick.

He
worked his feet loose from the sheets and gingerly manoeuvred himself
off the
edge of the bed. So far, so good, at least he hadn't thrown up yet. He
took in
a deep breath through his mouth and tried to focus all his senses on
the brief
walk to the bathroom. All those years of training and meditation had to
be good
for something. Even if he
didn't have the Force, he should at least have enough
self-control to make it to the toilet without mishap.

The
door slid open in front of him. He stepped through into the living
room, and
stopped short, his mission to the loo momentarily forgotten.

Leia
was there, dressed all in black, her hair pulled back in a single
braid. She
didn't seem to notice him. She was practising. With his lightsaber.

Luke
held his breath as he watched her gracefully swing the glowing green
blade. A
cushion bobbed up from the sofa, hung undecided in the air and then
swooped
toward Leia. With a swift, effortless-seeming move, she swung the
lightsaber
and sliced the cushion in half. She paused, watching as the cushion
halves
flopped to the floor. Then Leia opened her hand and let the lightsaber
go. It floated
away from her, up toward the ceiling. Slowly its path curved, and it
returned,
the hilt slipping back to its place in her hand.

Leia turned, and her eyes met Luke's.

He
blushed, outraged anger blending with embarrassment at being caught.
And with the
heavy discomfort in his guts. Not looking at her, he plunged through
the room.
He wished the bathroom door was an old-fashioned one that he could slam
shut
behind him, instead of it sliding quietly closed.

Even
as he sank down miserably beside the toilet, the thought burned at him,
she
shouldn't have it. It's mine.

To
his great irritation, he didn't throw up. Eventually he abandoned the
attempt,
and staggered to his feet to perform the task that he could manage. Gods, he thought, feels
like pissing an entire moisture farm. At the sink,
he splashed
large quantities of water on his face and hair, and contemplated having
a
shower, so he could put off facing Leia.

Wouldn't
do any good, he told himself. She'd still be out
there. With my lightsaber.

And with the Force.

He
pushed his dripping hair away from his face, and stepped back into the
living
room.

She didn't seem to have moved from where he
last saw her, but she had retracted the lightsaber. The small, silver
hilt
still gleamed in her right hand.

The
pathetic absurdity of it taunted him. Is this what our
childhoods would have
been like, he wondered, if we'd spent them
together? Year after year of arguing
about our toys? Gods damn it, Luke, you're an adult. Act like one.

He
closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and tried again. "If you're
going to use a lightsaber, you should build one of your own. It won't
work
right for you otherwise."

"You
didn't build your first one," she countered. "It was Anakin's."

Luke
nodded reluctantly. Anakin's lightsaber. The sword Obi Wan had given
Luke, with
the words, "your father wanted you to have it." The sword Obi Wan had
kept when Anakin fled minus a hand, to pilot his c-wing into the
nearest block
of flats.

For
a moment he saw an image of that blue-glowing blade as it spiralled
into the
darkness of the Cloud City maintenance chute, its hilt still clutched
by Luke's
own severed hand. He wondered if the sword had somehow willed him to
lose his
hand, as punishment for using his father's lightsaber against him.

Lightsabers
don't think, Luke. Stop being an ass and say something to your sister. Gods, he was
tired.
What did it matter, after all? What good was a lightsaber to him? "Where'd you
put it?" He asked wearily. "I didn't see it yesterday."

A
twinge of pain crossed Leia's face, as if she were imagining him
searching for
the saber so he could kill himself with it. Which was precisely what he
had
done.

She
said, "I had the droid lock it in the guest quarters' safe. I'm sorry,
Luke, I didn't think it was É"

"Didn't
think it was something a five year old should play with?" he finished,
with a sour grin. "No, you're right. Or was I six? Must have been, I
guess, if I thought I was going to school."

"Luke
--"

"It
doesn't matter. Go ahead and practice."

"Why
don't you practice with me?" she asked quietly.

He shook his head. "I'm no Obi Wan.
You'd be better off without me."

"No,
I wouldn't." She flung the retracted lightsaber down on the sofa.
"Luke,
practice with me. We don't know your loss is permanent. I know you
think it is,
but we don't know. Work with me.
Maybe it'll start to come back."
She still hadn't moved from the spot where she stood, afraid he'd
retreat if
she took a step toward him.

He
whispered, "it won't come back."

"Damn
it, Luke --"

The
door's entry bell chimed.

Leia
hesitated, her dark eyes flickering toward the door and then back to
him. The
angry tirade that she clearly wanted to launch into hung between them,
just at
the edge of speech. Then she sighed, her mouth closing into a thin,
irritated
line. She turned and crossed to the door.

Leia
punched the release button, the door swooping open. And Luke's heart
sank to
somewhere near the centre of the planet. Nice to be reminded,
he thought, that
no matter how bad a morning you're having, it can always get worse. In the
hallway
stood the man whose fate was apparently to witness all of Luke
Skywalker's most
humiliating moments. The red-haired Moff who'd interrupted his suicide.

"Moff
Nevoy," said Leia. Something about the tone of her voice caught Luke's
interest. It seemed out of place. She seemed Ð what, nervous?
Excited? As if
just the sight of Nevoy had awakened some kind of hope.

"Your
Highness," Nevoy said respectfully. "May I come in?"

"Of
course."

As
the door closed once more, Leia glanced from Nevoy to Luke. Her hands,
Luke
noticed, were clasped tightly in front of her. Too tightly. Whatever
was going
on here, Nevoy's arrival heralded some development of importance. "You
two
haven't really met, have you?" Leia asked.

Luke
felt himself blushing again. He was hardly in a state for formal
introductions,
with his clothes still disordered from sleep and drink, and droplets of
water
from his wet hair dribbling down his neck. But he was in a damn sight
better
shape than the previous few times he'd encountered Nevoy. "Not
officially,"
Luke said, surprising himself with the edge of dry humour in his voice.

The
two men nodded to each other. Nevoy's face was carefully void of
expression.
Luke didn't like to speculate on what expressions might have been there
if the
other man had allowed himself to show what he was thinking.

"Your
Highness," said Nevoy, turning his attention back to the Princess. "I
was hoping we could discuss your costume for the adoption ceremony. His
Imperial Majesty has suggested that you might wish to wear Alderaani
regalia,
but of course the decision will be up to you. I've taken the liberty of
bringing several files of costume suggestions, for you to look over
when you
have the time." He produced a handful of recording disks from his
breast
pocket, and handed them to Leia with another respectful little nod. "Of
course, no expense will be spared, so His Majesty asks that you make
whatever
choices will please you most. There is a file of costume suggestions
for
Commander Skywalker as well."

"Very
well," said Leia, her voice back under control. "And the other matter
we spoke of? Have you had a chance to look into it yet?"

"Yes,
Your Highness. I believe it is well in hand. It should be taken care of
tonight."

"My
pleasure, Highness," Nevoy said, with a little, encouraging smile. "If
I might suggest, I believe His Majesty is hoping for the chance to
speak with
you this morning. If you wish to attend on him now, I would like to
remain for
a few moments longer and discuss the adoption ceremony with Commander
Skywalker."

A look of understanding passed between
Nevoy and Leia, and Luke felt as bewildered as if they'd been speaking
Ewok. "Yes,
of course," Leia said. "That's a good idea." She put the
recording disks down on the gold and marble coffee table. Her gaze
rested on
Luke as if she wanted to say more, then she just said, "I'll be back
soon."
She turned abruptly and strode from the room, leaving Luke alone with
Moff
Nevoy.

Gods. With the
exception of Palpatine himself, Luke could think of few people with
whom he'd
feel less comfortable being in the same room. It wasn't enough that
this man
had been present for some of the most pathetic moments in Luke's life
Ð or that
Nevoy had just saved that life. Luke also remembered, with painful
clarity,
Palpatine remarking that Nevoy's son had died on the first Death Star.
"I
don't believe he likes our little Luke," had been Palpatine's comment.
Luke hadn't understood what he was talking about then. He understood
too damn
well, now.

Nevoy had dropped some of his control when
the Princess departed. His expression as he studied Luke was cold and
measuring, and his dark blue eyes held more than a hint of challenge.
But all
he said, in a civil tone, was "how are you feeling?"

Still
suicidal, thank you, thought Luke.
How are you? Instead, he
managed to shrug and say calmly, "I've been worse."

Nevoy
nodded, apparently searching for what to say next. Luke still had the
feeling
that he'd much rather tear Luke into little pieces than talk with him.
The Moff's
next words took Luke by surprise.

"I'm
going to have to trust you, Commander," he said. "A great deal
depends on you living up to it. Princess Leia and Lord Vader are going
to need
your help. Tonight."

A
weird little tingling sensation sprang to life in Luke's gut, that had
nothing
whatever to do with his hangover. He thought he remembered having just
such a
feeling five years ago, when he realised he would get the chance to fly
against
the Death Star with Biggs and Wedge and the others. "Go on," he said.

"I
asked Her Highness to leave because it's too dangerous for her to know
the
details. There's too much risk that the Emperor might read them from
her mind.
So we'll have to rely on you instead." The bitter set of Nevoy's mouth
revealed what he thought about that, but he did not comment. "It's very
important that the two of you be here in your quarters at 2130 tonight.
Above
all, neither of you must be with the Emperor at that time. Your lives
are going
to depend on it. Do you understand me?"

"Yes,"
said Luke.

"There's a strong possibility that His
Majesty will ask the Princess to dinner again, but you've got to make
sure that
she's here with you at 2130. Don't let anything get in the way of that.
Some of
our people will meet you here. Do your part tonight, Commander
Skywalker, and
there's every chance that by 2200 you'll be on your way back to your
friends in
the Rebellion."

"I
understand," Luke said. He stared defiantly at Nevoy, seeing all too
well
the tension in the man's stance and the implacable hatred in his eyes.
And Luke
wondered, what could I do Ð is there anything
I could do Ð to
make this man respect me? Fat chance, after my suicide attempt and that
little
scene with the colouring books. But he wanted
passionately, he realised, to
earn the Moff's respect. Almost as much as he wanted the respect of his
own
father.

Moff
Nevoy shouldn't have to live with the knowledge that his son had been
slain by
an idiotic coward.

"We'll
be here," said Luke. "You can count on it."

"Pass
me the hydrospanner, will you?"

Wedge
Antilles turned away from the open side-access panel and reached for
the
wheeled trolley where a selection of tools was piled in a jumbled heap.
He
extracted the spanner from the mess, and handed it to Commander
Angelotti, who
was lying on another trolley and had his head and torso up an access
port in
the tail of the Lamda shuttle, under
the rear thrusters. Wedge thought it
looked like Angelotti was helping a very large albatt bird to give
birth, but
they'd been working on this way too long to have the energy for making
jokes.

This
was the last of the shuttles they planned on modifying, and Wedge just
about
felt like doing a jig in celebration. When all this was over, he never
wanted
to look at the innards of a cloaking device again.

Of
course, there was every probability that within the next twenty-four
hours he
would get himself killed. Which would at least guarantee that he'd be
spared
any future interactions with cloaking devices.

Or
if he didn't get killed, he'd probably be fired instead. If one could
be fired
from the Rebellion. He wondered how that worked. Would he just get
demoted? Or
booted out entirely? He vaguely knew that there'd been some schisms in
the
Rebellion during its early years, and that some of its leaders had been
ousted,
but as far as he knew, nothing of the sort had happened in nearly two
decades.
Shit, what would he do if they did kick him out? He supposed he had the
qualifications to be a pretty good smuggler. Maybe he could ask Han
Solo for a
job reference Ð if they got Han Solo back.

There
had been no Command decision on the question of the rescue mission. As
far as
Wedge could tell, the decision was not to make a decision. So after the
fifth
meeting last night, Wedge had spoken Ð discreetly, he hoped
Ð with a few of his
colleagues. The ones who, like him, had been most vocal in support of
continuing the mission. Their new plan was to install the cloaking
device in
nine more shuttles Ð fifteen total, instead of the original
six. The Lambdas had
deep-space
capability, so the fifteen shuttles could make it to Coruscant on their
own,
without the capital ships that had been part of the original plan.
Wedge had
pilots lined up for most of them, and there was a wide range of
ex-Imperials in
the strike force, whose knowledge of Coruscant might just be enough
for
them to pull this off. At least Wedge wouldn't be alone in facing the
displeasure of Command, if they made it back alive. Commander
Angelotti,
General Calrissian, and Captain Ifar of the Mircalla were in this
as
deep as he was.

They
didn't propose to sneak off of the base. Not exactly. When they were
ready to
depart, they would inform Command of their decision. Inform them,
however, by
comlink, from inside their already-prepped shuttles. Just in case. The
officer
in charge of the hangar bay was in on the scheme, and had sworn on the
grave of
the Firelord that he would open the hangar and let the strike force
leave, no
matter what any General or Admiral or Head of State did to try and stop
him.

Part
of Wedge's mind still told him this was the wrong thing to do. That if
they
went ahead with their plan, they'd be hurting the Rebellion worse than
the loss
of Vader, Luke and the others could ever hurt it. If Wedge and his
comrades
went through with this, wouldn't they be sending the message that the
chain of
command meant nothing? That there was no reason for any member of the
Rebellion
to follow anyone else's orders? Gods, they might start a chain reaction
that
would pull them all down into anarchy. They could destroy everything
the Rebel
Alliance had accomplished.

So,
what should they do? Just let it go?

You
could make a good argument in favour of just that. Dead, Lord Vader and
the
others would be martyrs, perfect rallying points for the Rebellion's
cause.
Avenging them might be the goal that carried the Rebellion to its final
victory.

Perfect
rallying points. Just like Alderaan.

But
it was five years since Alderaan had been destroyed. And perfect
rallying point
or not, the Rebellion still hadn't won. And all those millions of
people were
still dead. And as far as Wedge could tell, their sacrifice had
achieved
nothing at all.

So
now I'm supposed to sacrifice my friends? Let them go without even
trying to
help? No. I don't think so.

Wedge paused in
soldering the last few wires together, and glanced up at the hangar
bay's clear
plastisteel ceiling. The Omean rain poured relentlessly down, and
beyond it the
grey sky looked like it would slide down and crush them.

He
thought back to those first hours and days after Alderaan. It hadn't
seemed
like such a perfect rallying point then. It had seemed like –
failure.
Despair. Proof that they didn't have a chance, that there was no longer
any
point in fighting.

How
many people did he know who'd committed suicide after Alderaan? Three?
He
thought that was the right number. Jin Moriana, one of his fellow
pilots.
Carmie Van Pearse, a Commander in the Rebellion's intelligence forces.
And
General Kimura, who'd grown up with Bail Organa.

The
Rebellion had rallied. They'd squeezed out a victory Ð the
Battle of Yavin Ð
and everything got hopeful and purposeful and heroic again.

But
that didn't change anything for the people who'd died.

If
– gods, if they lost Vader, the Princess, Luke –
would Wedge make
it through to the next heroic phase? Or would he be one of those who
just
couldn't live with the knowledge of what they had lost?

He
shook his head and focused on the wires. Hell with it. Mothma, Dodonna
and
Rieekan wouldn't let this smash the Rebellion. When they found that the
strike
force was leaving with their permission or without it, they'd give it
their
approval and be glad that for once they didn't have to make the tough
decisions. Sooner that, than admit to all of their followers that they
were
facing a rebellion within the Rebellion.

Of
course, that was blackmail. And Wedge didn't feel any too damn happy
about
that, either.

He ought to talk
with Mon Mothma one more time. Beg her, if that's what it took, to
approve the
plan to send the strike force. Make one more effort to turn this into
the Alliance's
official strategy, instead of the half-baked scheme of a gang of
sentimentalists who just couldn't bear leaving their friends to die
É

He
owed it to her, to talk with her. But even if she did approve the
mission, he
thought with a sudden wry grimace, he'd have to ask her not to discuss
it with
Admiral Piett. The poor damned Admiral would volunteer to join them.
Wedge
respected the Hell out of that man, but he did not want him
staggering from his hospital bed straight into the pilot's seat.

"Commander
Antilles?"

Wedge
jumped, mentally cursing himself for so obviously betraying his guilty
conscience. It was not the voice of his conscience that had spoken, he
saw as
he turned around. It was Captain Needa, instead.

"What
can I do for you, Captain?" Wedge asked, taking off his protective
eyescreen and wondering if Needa was the messenger that Command had
sent to
tell them to cease their treasonable activities or face time in the
brig.

Needa
said, his voice almost drowned by the background noise of the hangar
bay, "I've
heard a rumour that the Lambda strike force is
setting out for Coruscant. With
or without approval."

"Really?"
asked Wedge.

"Really,"
said Needa. He looked calm, almost bored, as he continued, "if that
were
the case, and if I knew who was planning the mission, I'd find him and
volunteer to go along."

"You
would," Wedge said. He tossed his eyescreen onto the trolley, and
crossed
his arms over his chest. "I thought you didn't approve of the attack on
Coruscant."

"I
didn't. I still don't. I'm from Coruscant, Commander. It's never fun to
picture
the places you grew up in turning into a war zone."

"But?"

"But,
the Lambda strike force
should cause less disruption to the planet and I think it's
got a better chance of success. I'd like to help the team get on and
off
Coruscant with as little damage as possible -- as little damage to us and to the planet.
And
-- " he looked away, his voice becoming so quiet that Wedge could
barely
hear it. "And I owe Lord Vader a lot. My life, in fact. I ought to do
something to repay that."

Wedge
eyed him narrowly. Something was weird about this. Captain Needa had so
consistently poked holes in all their rescue plans, for him to change
his mind
now was É then again, maybe the Captain really was a man who
just spoke before
he thought. If he'd taken the time to think about it, now, and decided
they
were right, then that was all to the good Ð wasn't it?

"How
are you at piloting, Captain?"

Needa
shrugged. "I passed both the fighter and the shuttle courses at the
Academy. Flew proto TIEs in my first couple years after graduation.
It's been a
while, but I should be able to keep up."

They
still needed pilots. And if Needa had been good enough to be chosen as
one of
the early TIE pilots, he could sure as Hell find his way around a Lambda.

So
why was some damned voice of foreboding still niggling at the back of
Wedge's
brain?

To
Hell with the voice of foreboding. He'd just been spending too long
staring at
cloaking devices, with too little sleep.

"Well,
Captain," said Wedge. "If there was a plan to launch a rescue
operation, and if I was the man in charge of it, I'd tell you
Ôwelcome aboard'."

"Wedge?"
That was Commander Angelotti, sitting up on his trolley and gazing
warily at
something behind Wedge and Captain Needa. "I think the shit's hit the
hyperdrive."

Wedge
and the captain both turned. General Madine was striding across the
hangar bay
toward them, followed in close succession by Captain Faren and
Commander
Narita, the joint chiefs of security. And, behind them, by five more
security
guards.

Wedge
stared. That was a bit of overkill, wasn't it? Seven security types and
a
general, just to round up him and Angelotti? It wasn't like he and
Angelotti
had gone to work armed. What did security think they'd do, throw
hydrospanners
at them?

General
Madine paused a couple of metres away from them. The others were ranged
just
behind him. One hand planted on his belt and the other on the hilt of a
holstered blaster, Madine announced, "Captain Needa? You're under
arrest."

Wedge
would almost have been willing to bet that the captain had the Force,
so
quickly did he move. He lunged at the maintenance trolley and hurled it
at
Madine, the heap of tools flying everywhere. The edge of the upended
trolley
caught Madine around the waist, sending him tumbling backward into the
security
chiefs behind him. Madine and Security Captain Faren both ended up on
the deck,
Faren swearing and struggling to scramble free from the General and the
trolley. Commander Narita managed to save herself from falling, drew
her
blaster and fired. But Needa had already moved again. He saw Angelotti
behind
him on the other trolley. Figuring he might be a threat, the Captain
just
shoved the trolley with all his strength, and sent it, Angelotti and
all, rolling
across the hangar bay deck until it collided with a storage bin and
deposited
the yelling Angelotti on the floor.

Narita
and at least three of the guards were firing now. Wedge had been
thinking of
trying to tackle Captain Needa, but he sure as hell wasn't going to
with
everybody and their brother firing on him. The Captain had grabbed a
large
wrench from one of the trolleys and threw it at the nearest security
guard.
Then, seeming to duck away from the latest round of blaster fire, Needa
leaned
down Ð and pulled a miniature blaster out of his boot.

Shit,
he's armed! Theoretically that might not have been so
surprising, since they were an armed
rebellion. But the fighters didn't usually carry weapons except when
they were
on manoeuvres or actual campaign. And it was very rare for Command
officers to
carry at all. It had looked weird to see Madine packing. It was even
weirder to
realise that Captain Needa had been toting a blaster around in his boot.

Now
Needa and the security team were firing at each other, and Wedge was
going to
get out of the way. He ducked and ran for the nearest weapons locker,
in the
hangar bay's wall. All around him he could see people ducking, running,
flinging themselves behind space ships. He slammed into the locker,
punched in
the access code, and grabbed out the first blaster pistol that came to
hand. He
whirled to face the action once more.

Security
Captain Faren was now up on one knee and firing. General Madine had
extricated
himself from the trolley and the tools, but his blaster seemed to have
gone
missing in the chaos. The security team was still firing, but the
necessity of
avoiding Needa's blaster shots seemed to have a bad effect on their aim.

Okay, thought
Wedge. He's
not paying attention to me. I've got a clear shot. I should be able to
wing him
… if the gods are with me, that is …

Wedge
fired, and at the same instant General Madine hurled himself at Needa,
tackled
him around the knees, and sent him flying.

Madine
and Needa smashed to the deck. Wedge's shot, mercifully, didn't hit any
innocent bystanders, but he did see it sear into the foil of an X-wing,
and
Wedge roundly cursed the General's bout of heroics. Gods, now he
wouldn't be
able to get a clear shot again because General Madine was all over
Needa and,
for gods' sakes, trying to punch him Ð trying to punch a man
with a blaster? A
sudden twist freed Needa somewhat, but Madine was still blocking him
from Wedge's
aim. Commander Narita, from her different vantage point, took advantage
of the
instant and fired.

Wedge
couldn't see if the shot had told. He did see what happened next. A
blaster
bolt blazed up from Captain Needa's position, and Security Commander
Narita
plummeted to the floor.

Over
the widespread shouting, Wedge could hear Narita's colleague Captain
Faren
screaming, "no! No!" Faren scrambled to the fallen Narita and flung
himself to his knees beside her. She moved a little, trying to turn
over, and
Wedge thought he could see the blackness of blood gushing from her
throat.

Then
suddenly no one was firing. Because Captain Needa had lunged at Madine,
grabbed
him from behind, and was now pressing the muzzle of the miniature
blaster into
General Madine's neck.

"Nobody
shoots," ordered Needa, his voice carrying easily across the huge room.
"Make
any move I don't like, and Madine is dead."